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The table of guys nods their heads, feeling comforted by the words. I don’t know if it’s my own apprehension, or the fact I’ve had to keep on the downlow for so many days, but I look up from my uneaten salad and blurt, “Whatever you think it it’s going to be, it’ll be worse. Trust me.”

All eyes swing to me. Heat rushes to my cheeks. I’ve made an effort to be invisible the last few days, and it’s been easy to do with so many other recruits around.

“Oh yeah? Do you have some kind inside intel?”

Maybe? No, not really. “It’s just a feeling,” I say, picking up my fork. “Hopefully, I’m wrong.”

But that’s the thing, I realize later that night when Rat stands on top of a stack of hay, shirtless and revealing his disturbing tattoos, and presses the siren on the bullhorn, gathering everyone in a circle.

I’m not.

“Tonight, goats,” he says, grinning darkly, “the gauntlet has no boundaries—no level too high. It goes to the place of urban legends. It’s a place of bonding. Revelation. Brotherhood.” The group of recruits shifts anxiously. No one in this room would admit they’re afraid, but there’s the scent of apprehension in the air. A drop of sweat slides down my back. He continues, “Tonight, we take part in a communion of sorts; The Pledge Cocktail.”

The barn doors swing open and Royer strides in, holding something over his head. Miller and Knox follow, but every pledge looks to the president, trying to see what he’s holding. It’s a trophy? No. A cup? A mug? He moves to the middle of the circle. A few shoulders relax visibly—it’s just a drinking test. Barring alcohol poisoning, half the room has been priming for this challenge.

Until Royer spins the mug around and reveals the writing on the side.

“I Love Cumming.”

The love is in the shape of a heart. On the other side it says, Cumming, Georgia. It’s tacky, hilarious and… confusing.

“What the hell is that for?” the goat next to me asks.

The smug look on Royer’s face makes me nervous. I look for Miller—for a clue—but his face is passive, bored even. This isn’t good.

“Tonight, some of you will contribute to the Cumming Cup.”

“Contribute?” someone says across the circle. “You mean…”

“Jerk off into the cup, yeah,” Rat laughs.

“Shit.”

“Ugh.”

Everyone has an opinion. Not me. I’m just trying to control the wave of panic building in my chest.

“Fuck. This is gross,” the guy next to me says. He’s right. It is gross. Again, I look for Miller, but he’s avoiding me entirely. It’s a smart move. My stomach drops and sweat accumulates under my armpits, but then I pause and thrust my hand into the air.

“Yes?” Royer asks, shifting that dark gaze to me.

“You said some of you…”

He responds with a slow grin. “Very good.” He turns from me and faces the other side of the circle. “Some of you have been outstanding goats this week, others… not so much. We’ve taken note.” On cue, Knox holds up a sheet of paper. Even from a distance, it’s obvious it’s a list. “Those of you that have fallen short of your duties will be the ones to participate in this challenge.”

The drop of sweat turns into a river.

“There are twelve of you ranking at the lower end of our charts. Yes, we keep track.” People shift and squirm, giving away exactly who knows they’re being called out. “We know a few of you are going to feel inadequate. We’ve prepared for that. We’re deviants, not pervs. The mug will be in the back horse stall. You’ll go in, think of your mothers and leave your contribution in the cup.” Rat explains the rules like we’re about to play Monopoly. But this could work. If I’m in there alone, no one will know. “To keep you honest,” he continues, “there will be a monitor in the room, making sure every last drop goes in.”

“And then what?” a voice asks. “Who’s going to drink this shit?”

“No one,” Royer says, making eye contact around the circle, “if you finish in time.”

I barely hear what he’s saying, instead trying to think around my thundering heart. This is it. Not only will I be exposed, but it’ll be in front of eighty other men. Eighty, exhausted, angry, horny men who haven’t had a chance to hook up, or masturbate, all week.

Shit.

“Forty-seven!” My eyes jerk up. Royer holds the mug out. “Since you specifically skipped out on the shower last night, you get the honor of being the cup monitor.”